


I want you anyway

by consultingbeekeepers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Party, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, POV Sherlock Holmes, Romance, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 07:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13209108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingbeekeepers/pseuds/consultingbeekeepers
Summary: Irene drags Sherlock to the annual Christmas disco at university. Everyone is going to be there. Everyone. Including the boy he has had a crush on for longer than he can remember, which is exactly why he’s not going, and nobody can convince him otherwise.





	I want you anyway

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear readers! 
> 
> Although Christmas is already over, I hope this little story will prolong the spirit a little bit.

Sherlock’s head was buried in one of the books lying in front of the table in front of him when she broached the subject for the nth time this month. The Christmas break was merely one week away and he was grateful for it. He had borne the constant presence of idiotic people around him for far too long and yearned for the liberating atmosphere of being alone once more, dedicating his time to more important matters than the upcoming annual Christmas disco.

He had never seen the point in attending such events, dancing among badly-smelling people who were of the opinion they were good dancers, flatly singing along to the horribly cheesy Christmas songs, their favourite being _Last Christmas_ , and joining the chattering of already half-tipsy blokes by the bar whose only subjects of conversation were sports and girls; in neither of which Sherlock was remotely interested. It wasn’t hard to decide between such a waste of time and a much more useful way of spending it, busying himself with a good book in front of the fire or an experiment.

“Oh, love, come on,” Irene reached over to rest her hands on top of Sherlock’s to rouse his attention. “It’ll be so much fun. How can you judge if you’ve never been there? Isn’t that what you always preach? Have all the facts and then formulate your deduction. Where are your principles, darlin’?" 

“I do not need to turn up at all to know for certain it won’t be worth my time. And please stop calling me ‘darling’. It’s practically cringe-worthy,” Sherlock replied, not even raising his eyes to her. 

She squeezed his hands forcefully. “You know exactly who will be there,” she whispered knowingly. 

“Precisely, another reason to avoid going anywhere near the _établissement_.”

“Keep your French and rather show your skills on the dance floor, sunshine,” she smirked and winked at him.

One of the librarians shushed them. Sherlock gave Irene an annoyed look. “See? I’m not the only one who feels disturbed by this conversation. “Will you _please_ just let it go?” he hissed quietly. 

"Watch me," Irene promised with a smile that was undoubtedly going to bring the opposite of a blessing.

“I’d rather I would not have to,” Sherlock sighed dismissively and buried his head in his books once more.

 

____________________

 

“Look what I’ve got, sunshine,” Irene beamed as she held up two tickets she had apparently purchased in advance.

“I deeply regret to inform you, but you could have spent this money more wisely,” Sherlock told her, looking up from the sandwich he didn’t actually intend to eat. 

“Regard it as a gift.” 

“I hate gifts.” 

“That’s hardly my fault,” Irene answered, handing him the dark purple paper ticket.

Sherlock made no gesture to accept it, which is why Irene stuffed it into his breast pocket.

“You do understand, of course, that this does not mean that I will attend this ridiculous event in any case, don’t you?" 

“You’re unbelievable sometimes, do you know that?” she asked, reaching for his sandwich and taking a bite.

“Says the person who– wha– Stop that!”

“You weren’t going to eat it anyway and I’m starving. Stop complaining." 

With a petulant pout, he reached into his breast pocket and regarded the ticket suspiciously. "Winter Wonderland," he scoffed and rumpled the little slip of paper, leaving both the card and a now very irritated-looking Irene behind by the table.

 

____________________

 

“Both your father and I are very proud of you, Sherlock. You know that, don’t you?” his mother asked him in her overly sentimental tone that Sherlock has never been able to listen to for more than exactly 2.57 seconds before a very inconvenient feeling began to spread through his abdomen.

“Mum–“ 

"Fine, fine," she sighed. Sherlock could hear the smile in her voice. "When will you come back for Christmas? Have you already bought a train ticket?"

“I have. My train’s going at 4:30 in the afternoon, on the 23rd.”

One more excuse to tell Irene not to go to this stupid disco. Unfortunately, his train was going to leave before it would even start. Of course, he had chosen this one on purpose. No way would he let her turn up at his flat and drag him to it after all. If he wasn’t here, he wouldn’t have to bear this undertaking after all.

“That’s lovely. Your father will pick you up from the station. He’s been asking me to ring you for days now, since you never actually think of doing that yourself, young man,” she reprimanded him in her soft motherly voice.

“I’m very busy.”

"Oh, I'm sure you are. First months are the hardest, I know," she sounded reminiscent now. Sherlock wanted to hang up before she would start talking about her freshman year at university. He'd heard the stories plenty of times, and the tongue lying in his petri dish right now presented a much more enjoyable way of spending his time than listening to his mother falling into melancholy.

“I have to go now. I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Alright, then, Sherlock. Until Friday.”

“Until Friday.”

With that, he hung up. “Our boy really has grown up,” was probably what his mother said to his father now, who had been listening the entire time. She always put him on speaker. 

Sighing, he reached for his tweezers and set to work.

 

____________________

 

“You’re coming to the disco on Friday, aren’t you, mate?” a young, dark-haired man with tan skin, bright eyes and a wide smile asked his short, blond friend whose eyes were screaming with fatigue.

"I don't think so, Bill. I have to hand in the paper for pathology on Friday and I have no idea how to manage that. I haven't slept properly in three days, and, should I be able to hand in this crap by Friday, I don't think I'll be up to anything but sleeping," the young man laughed tiredly.

Sherlock hadn't sat down close to them in the refectory on purpose. Of course he hadn't. It was hardly his fault they were sitting so close to him. However, he couldn't pretend not to feel his heartbeat picking up a pace or two at the mention of the Christmas disco.

“Oh come on, you need to get your mind off that stupid paper,” Bill urged his friend. “Once you’ve handed it in, you’ll be able to enjoy yourself. And trust me, you’ll regret it if you don’t turn up. The org team have some pretty great things planned.”

“I’m sure they have,” John said and pressed both palms against his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll be able to enjoy all of them while I’m getting to catch my well-deserved sleep.” He rested his arms on the table and bedded his head on them.

Something gnawed at Sherlock’s heart when he saw John like that. Normally, his gorgeous smile was always on display, his laughter echoing through the halls as he made his way to the next lecture he arrived at just in time. The first time he laid eyes on John was during a chemistry lecture. His smile was infectious, his trying-so-hard-to-understand-but-not-quite-seeing-the-connection-yet frown was heart-warming and his body, well, to speak in the language of his idiotic fellow students, “something t look at”; not that Sherlock paid much attention to physical strength and fitness because he didn’t. John, however, was a little different.

Sherlock supposed he was the most popular student of his year. He was in his 5th semester, as he had found out. Well, Irene had provided him with that information after she noticed how “gone on him” he already was. That was, frankly, ridiculous. 

One could admire somebody’s physical appearance and one’s traits without being “gone on” said someone, could one not? 

They only talked once during a chemistry project. It was a practical lesson during which they experimented with various acids and their effect on human DNA. John’s partner, Mike his name was, was sick on that day and Sherlock was the only one without a partner. Due to his own incapability of producing anything sensible during their conversation that did not revolve around the experiment – no he neither blushed nor stammered! – he soon stopped talking altogether. It might be one of the reasons why John smiled at him a bit awkwardly whenever he saw him now ("Well, at least he smiles at you!" Irene kept telling him) and it was unquestionably the reason why Sherlock avoided talking or seeing John at all costs. Admiring from afar was fine, but immediate interaction? No. 

The best way to ~~admire~~ , study the incomprehensible man that was John Watson, he discreetly snuck into the back rows of the rugby matches taking place twice a month. John was a marvellous player, the team captain – what else would he be, _what_ else – and frankly, looked terrific in his shorts. No, Sherlock did not fantasise about him. He merely observed … though too avidly, as he realised a few weeks ago, because whenever the mental images of the blond man flashed up in his mind unexpectedly during a shower or whenever he lay in bed willing his brain to shut up, it felt almost impossible to keep his hand from going to places on his body he normally left untouched. He was above what the human race coined _pleasure_ , and certainly no John Watson would provoke a change when it came to his sexual needs, which were, in fact, non-existent. That was, until a certain point when he saw John in his rugby attire, dirty with soil and mud and grass and rain, smiling at his teammates in utter hilarity.

It was that night when he came home and showered that he couldn’t keep his hand from closing around his erection that had been throbbing inside his too tight jeans for longer than could be healthy in any way. Damn him. He would give in to this urge of quick release and then find a way to end this dysfunction if his body.

He still hasn’t found it.

The worst of this problem was that he wasn’t sure whether this obsession of his was purely physical. He felt as though something was churning in his gut whenever he saw him while at the same time a strange tickling feeling spread through his chest. It was an odd mixture of sensations that he had never experienced before.

“Well, sunshine? Still swooning over your rugby captain?” Irene greeted jovially as she sat down across from him with her lunch tray.

Sherlock’s head turned in an instant as he was pulled out of his trance. Panic immediately rose in his chest whether John might have heard her words, but very likely he was dozing on the table while Bill was blathering away about the party preparations the organisation team was planning.

“Would you keep it down?” Sherlock hissed, irritated.

“Would you stop behaving like a child?”

“You are the one who cannot accept a no by a grown-up. So, who is the child here?”  
  
“A grown-up. Is that what you think you are, freshman?”

“Stop belittling me. You’re in your first semester, too.”

“Unlike you, I’m not behaving like a petulant schoolgirl who’s in love with the most popular guy at school.”

“Will you shut up?”

“Why? Isn’t it true?”

“Of course it isn’t!” Sherlock spat and reached for his bag. “I’m leaving.”

“Do that, and use that brain for something else for once.”

“And what would that be?" 

“Figuring out that you do, in fact, have a huge crush on that guy.”

Sherlock palmed her off with nothing more than an exaggerated roll of his eyes before he headed back to the labs.

 

____________________

 

For a brief moment, Sherlock truly considered offering to help John with his paper, but he dismissed the idea mere seconds after it had come to him. What sort of impression would that make? He was already on the list under the heading of “weirdoes” of almost everyone in his year. Why would he want to add John to the many people who already regarded him as such? Awkward smiles were enough, thank you. 

However, perhaps it would relieve the disconcerting pressure on his chest. If only a little.

 He still hadn’t found out where it came from. He only knew its constant presence had accompanied him ever since he saw John regularly. Any autonomous attempts of his thoughts to consider what Irene had said about “having a crush” were stopped immediately. He couldn’t allow himself to fall for someone, even less to think about the process. Admitting it to himself would make it real, make it true, and the truth cannot be disregarded and remain unacknowledged for long. Better not to think of it.

Because it was wrong anyway. A simple error in the system. Fixable. Mendable. Eradicative.

He simply had to regain control over his mind, his thoughts, and his bodily reactions.

Although he was not exactly delighted over the family reunion for Christmas, mostly due to Mycroft’s presence, it would serve the purpose of taking his mind off the entire matter. He wouldn’t be confronted with John’s terribly handsome smile every day, wouldn’t have to face him and grin awkwardly, wouldn’t have to admire him furtively from a not-too-far-away table in the refectory and ~~fantasise,~~ think (!!!) about him all the time.

He really had fallen into a bottomless pit, hadn't he?

Thankfully, he had already bought the train ticket that would bring him far away from the reality he had to face every day and which was safely folded inside his wallet.

 

…

 

                                                         …

 

…

 

                                                                                                                                                                                    …

 

“Give it back to me. I know you have it, so stop pretending not to know what I’m talking about,” Sherlock demanded of Irene before she even got the chance to open her mouth to say hello.

"Nice to see you, too, sunshine. What's the matter with you this morning?" She cocked an eyebrow at his desperate expression.

“My train ticket,” Sherlock clarified, visibly furious now. “I knew you’d use every means in your power to get me to come on Friday, but I did not expect you to go through my possessions!”

“I did no such thing,” Irene answered calmly and shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe you lost it. Wouldn’t surprise me, considering the mess that is your flat.”

“I. Did. Not. Lose. It.”

“Well, I don’t have it,” Irene declared, raising her hands in innocence. “It _is_ rather convenient, though.”

Her smirk made him even angrier. “If _anything_ , it is rather _suspicious_!" 

"Oh, do relax, darling. I'm sure you'll find it. And if you don't, I do know an excellent activity to fill your Friday night with." Winking at him, she got up and patted his shoulder twice. "I've got class now. Good luck with your search. Oh! And, you know, you could've spent your money more wisely had you decided to stay one more day."

Sherlock scoffed at her repetition of his own words. “If you had any integrity at all, you’d give it back to me." 

She rolled her eyes at him and threw her hair over her shoulder as she walked away.

He did have enough money to buy another ticket, but he outright refused to do so. He would be damned if he gave up so quickly.

 

____________________

 

Irene’s insistence was insufferable. She kept asking during classes they shared, during lunch breaks, even on the way home until Sherlock took a different tube to get home. It lasted for days and days on end until Sherlock decided to simply skip classes on the last day.

However, the silence in his humble flat slowly started to suffocate him. It gave his nagging thoughts a voice and let doubts flare up in his stomach.

Irene still hadn’t given him given the train ticket back, still denied having nicked it in the first place while she had her “oh-come-on, darling” face on with her winks and her apologetic smirk. Sherlock had never befriended a more atrocious liar.

Should he simply do her the favour of turning up for five minutes, so she would finally stop pestering him about the matter?

After all his emotions would be spared as John wasn’t going to be there anyway.

But what if he did decide to turn up?

What if he chose to dance with every girl possible? Anyone who made her advances? 

What if he kissed her on the dance floor and then led her away to the toilets to give her the night of her life?

Bile rose in his gut merely imagining this. He hated how much control he had lost over his feelings, how his rationality had vanished and taken all reason with him. 

Buying another train ticket was giving in, but then agreeing to accompany Irene to the disco was giving in as well. To solve his dilemma and calm his nerves he reached for his violin case. When he opened it, however, another rush of nerviness flushed his veins, spreading from head to toe but gathering especially around his middle.

A small, crumpled-up, violet ticket to the Winter Wonderland Christmas disco stood out against the crimson silk inside the violin case.

With a frustrated groan, which was prolonged by the ringing doorbell, he locked the violin back into its case and trod downstairs more heavily than was strictly necessary to make his desperation known.

When he saw Irene in her most sparkly attire that the world had ever seen, he almost slammed the door into her face, but Irene beat him to it and stepped inside before he could do anything untoward.

“Good evening, love,” she sighed as she let herself in. “What a welcoming.”

“The reason for it being that you are not,” Sherlock answered.

"What a shame," she replied in mock-dismay. "May I use your mirror? I calculated I could do my make-up here while releasing you from your scruples about tonight."

She was already walking upstairs before Sherlock had the chance to reply.

“I’m not coming, despite your enthusiastic attempts to convince me _repeatedly_ ,” Sherlock called after her, following her taking two steps at once.

“Oh, darling.” She stopped at the top of the stairs and pouted playfully. “You’ll thank me one day.”

“This is highly doubtful,” Sherlock answered. Irene headed for the bathroom and revealed various make-up utensils. 

“Grab your best shirt.”

Sherlock sighed, “Irene …” 

“Is this your cologne?” she asked and regarded the little flacon suspiciously, spraying once and smelling. “Hmm, nice one.”

“Stop it.”

Irene began to apply eyeliner steadily, not even bothered by Sherlock’s presence. “Grab the shirt, Sherlock.” 

“Irene–“

“And a nice pair of trousers, too.”

“This really isn’t–“

“Hope your shoes are shining,” she said, running red lipstick along her full lips.

Sherlock stopped replying altogether, his shoulders hunching and his head falling to his chest.

“What’s wrong, love?” she asked, looking at him in the mirror.

“Why should I go? John won’t even be there, and setting him up with me is obviously your primary intention.”

“So what’s so bad about enjoying yourself, dancing to some good music?” she asked empathetically. “I thought you were relieved about John’s absence?”

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the tub and sighed in defeat. “I cannot stand this caring, feeling business. It’s an intolerable state that my body does not know how to overcome. His frequent appearances in my dreams are not very beneficial at all.”

“You dream about him?” Irene cocked an eyebrow and then laughed. “What a stupid question. Of course you do. What do you dream about?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Oh trust me, honey, I’m concerned about your well-being. Did I mention I was a dream reader?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I am–“

“Will you stop mocking me and be of actual help? If not, I’ll order you to go this instant and make you pay for the cab ride to the station.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Irene answered coolly and inspected her fingernails. “Has it occurred to you that I’ve been trying to help you for an entire fortnight now? Why would I want you to go to this bloody disco with me?”

Sherlock stared blankly at her.

“So you’ll finally talk to John, for heaven’s sake!”

“He wouldn’t even talk to me, even if he came.”

“And why wouldn’t he?”

“Because nobody else does either obviously,” Sherlock told her as if it were the most blatant thing in the world.

“I cannot even begin to tell you how far from the truth this is,” Irene countered and set down her brush on the sink. “Trust me for one goddamn night, and you won’t regret it.”

Before Sherlock could object, she pulled him up from the tub and shoved him into the bedroom. “Now. Best shirt, trousers, and shoes. The mirror’s free in 5 minutes.”

 

____________________

 

He didn’t know what on earth possessed him to actually get into a cab with her and be taken to the university’s biggest exam hall that the disco took place in. All he knew is that he would probably leave with his heart hanging heavy with disappointment and regret inside his chest. After all, it was a lost evening, wasn’t it …

A blond fellow student in a low-cut dress and a guy Sherlock had never seen before checked the tickets at the entrance. Irene was let in before him as the blond girl eyed his ticket with an amused smile. "This one's suffered quite a bit, eh?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her. “Will you let me in or complain about the state of my entrance card?”

“Well, I don’t need to tear this one, I suppose,” she shrugged at let him pass without truly taking offence at his remark. “Have a good night!”

Irene raised an eyebrow at his comment and led him inside. “There, now. Isn’t this amazing?”

“Ordinary.”

“Spoilsport,” Irene answered and removed her coat. “I need to talk to the org team for a minute. I’ll be back in no time. You’ll be all right, won’t you?”

Of course, this had to happen. He knew she’d drag him here and then abandon him amongst all too cheery people that he already disliked in their non-inebriated state. Why had he been so stupid to fall for her guise …

“Most certainly,” he sighed instead and turned towards the bar. Maybe a drink would help to stop his brain from telling him constantly and repeatedly how much of a bad idea this had been. So he ordered a gin and tonic.

He sat alone for a while, downing half the drink in solitude.

He was busy watching the ice cubes glide through the liquor when the most fortunate event of the evening occurred.

“Sherlock!”

He whirled around at the sound of an all too familiar voice. “Oh,” he cleared his throat. His heart was pounding at least a million times too quickly, but at least it didn’t show in his voice. “John. Hello.” 

“Didn’t think you’d come here,” John smiled, sitting down on the barstool to his left. He looked so handsome in his marine blue shirt and his jeans, despite the fatigue covering his entire face and exhaustion lingering in his bones. He was apparently pleased to see a familiar face. Well, not _too_ familiar. "Though actually, I didn't think I'd see you again anywhere at all since you barely turn up to Davis' seminar anymore," he chuckled. "But I can't blame you. It's got boring as hell."

Sherlock shrugged at the last comment. “Thankfully I didn’t waste my time then,” he answered, trying to keep his tone light. “I heard you weren’t so sure about coming here tonight either,” he said stupidly and immediately regretted his words.

“Oh, who told you that?" 

Damn his quick mouth!

“I– um. The um, the girls in front of me were t-talking about you– While I was waiting outside to– to have my ticket checked.”

John laughed heartily. “No need to stammer. I wasn’t trying to imply anything here,” he said reassuringly. “I barely got to talk to you after the experiment in class.”

“Well, I’m otherwise occupied more often than not,” Sherlock attempted, not mentioning that he avoided any conversation with John at all times.

“Yes, I heard you are. People tell quite crazy stuff about you.”

“I’m very certain they do,” he swallowed. Well, this _chat_ was going absolutely _brilliantly_ …

“I didn’t mean that as in– no, look, I meant. Great, I just screwed this up.” He shook his head and started again. “I don’t care about the gossip or the opinions some may have of you. I just heard you’re involved in police work sometimes. That true?”

“My brother has some connections, yes.”

“So you dabble in police investigations?”

"Now and then I pursue my own investigations and help when necessary. I wouldn't call it proper work." Sherlock shrugged helplessly. "Most of them are unbearable idiots." 

John laughed at that. “So much for the prospective turn for the better of our justice system.” 

“A bright future lies ahead indeed,” Sherlock answered and took a sip of his drink while John cackled with laughter. He didn’t quite get how what he said was funny, but the sound of John chuckling at something he said was a sound he would not forget anytime soon and savour safely in a separate room inside his mind palace. A pleased smile appeared on his lips. 

“So you caught some criminals, too?” he asked when he recovered from Sherlock’s denigrating comment about the police force.

“Some." 

“That must be quite exciting. I’d love to hear some stories,” John beamed at him. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not quite believing him. “Do you really?” he asked, almost shocked.

“Of course. Why else would I say that?” John’s smile disappeared slightly and Sherlock regretted making that comment instantly.

“It’s just– people say a lot of things they don’t truly mean in certain situations. It can get quite challenging to distinguish between what they say and what they actually mean. The discrepancy between language and meaning is hard to keep apart sometimes,” Sherlock told John candidly.

“No, honestly Sherlock. I would truly love to hear some stories. It’s just really loud here, so maybe we’ll postpone it to a quiet lunch break sometime soon?” John offered with a heartfelt smile.

Sherlock felt himself nodding as his heart swelled. Maybe John didn’t find him so awkward and strange after all. He seemed to be genuinely interested in what he did. A rarity when it came to people in Sherlock’s close environment. 

“God, I need a drink. And you look like you could do with another one, too,” John announced and raised his hand to show the barkeeper he’d like to order two shots of whiskey. “This round’s on me.”

Sherlock nodded his thanks before receiving his tumbler. “Where are your all your friends tonight?” he dared to ask.

“Some of them, including Mike, have gone home already. And well, Bill is chasing some girls, I suppose. He dragged me here tonight. I wanted to come at first ‘cause I go every year, but my semester has been hell, papers over papers over papers. I just managed to finish it in time. But at what cost!” he said dramatically and then chuckled. “They could cast me for Frankenstein’s monster right now. I wouldn’t need make-up.”

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Sherlock tried, but John just grinned and shook his head.

“Thanks for the kind words. I know I look like utter shit.”

Both of them started to giggle at the same moment.

"So yeah, no lewd intentions on my part tonight," John smiled tiredly and took a sip of his whiskey. Sherlock didn't quite know how he was feeling about that. Relieved on one part yes, but the fact that he would have done so were he not too exhausted made his heart sting more painfully than he wanted to admit to himself.

“What about you?” John asked him, pulling him out of his mingling thoughts. “How come you’re here?”

“Irene stole and returned my train ticket.” She had told him about that on the cab ride here. ("You can by another one tomorrow," she smirked as she handed him back the money.)

John sniggered at that. “Seriously?”

“Yes, she does have her ways of convincing someone of her will. She has been trying to get me to agree to go with her for weeks. All previous attempts have failed, so more drastic measures had to be taken apparently.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at her amaranthine willpower. “I’m not one for social events such as this.” 

“Why not?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. What good would it do to inform John of his feeling uncomfortable amongst the mass of people around him, the uncountable pairs of eyes who judged and stared appraisingly? About the noises inside his head that never shut up anyway and loud music that did nothing to soothe his thoughts? About the fact that he had dreaded running into John himself because he has had a crush on him for longer than he would like to admit to himself?

No, surely he couldn't do that.

“I um …” He contemplated how to covey it without needing to explain himself. “I just don’t like it. Too crowded rooms aren’t really my favourite place to be in.” He swallowed, hoping John would let it go.

"That explains why you barely turn up to classes," John chuckled, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile, too. "But yes, I can relate to that,” he smiled and emptied his tumbler. “I prefer a night out at the pub with friends over parties such as this.”

Sherlock nodded, although this wasn't really what he meant. Still, at least John found gatherings such as this one not so appealing either. It was a start 

The conversation drifted off the more meaningless topics, and Sherlock found himself enjoying John’s company more than he could have predicted or anticipated. The constant flow of more and more alcoholic liquid fulfilled its purpose of easing the conversation, but Sherlock was grateful for it. The tension having sat heavily on his shoulders at the beginning slowly faded and soon vanished completely. John was a more than agreeable conversationalist and Sherlock wished the time would slow down or freeze entirely, so the evening wouldn’t have to end after all.

But then a frightening thing happened.

After the nth cheesy Christmas song that the DJ played, what had to be John’s friend Bill stepped in front of the microphone and made an announcement he seemed to feel very excited about. Dread rose in Sherlock’s gut.

"To shake things up a bit tonight, we now come to the greatest part of the night. Lads, it's time to look up from your drinks and … my dear ladies? We hope you haven't toed off your heels yet! The dance floor calls for all of you now, come on. Let's see some movement here. Yes, yes perfect!" Some girls chuckled cheerfully as they pulled their boyfriends by the collar or best friends by the hand to the dance floor.

Sherlock's gut did a complete somersault when he saw Irene step behind the microphone. "And those who can't find a partner, don't worry about a thing! We thought of everything." 

She winked at Bill and a few other girls who were at the organisation team for the night, and then the lights in the hall went dark. Except for a few spotlights. 

Sherlock’s heart beat violently in his chest. _No, no, no, no, no._

“Those who want to be a spoilsport, now’s your time to escape to the loo for five minutes,” Irene chuckled. “And the rest of you, don’t worry. I’m sure your partner’s better at dancing than you give them credit for.”

Sherlock willed her to stop winking.

“Right then. Next thing’s easy. Just find your spotlight partner and then show your talent on the dance floor." 

John laughed at the spectacle as a few guys actually fled to the toilets. “Now I know why Bill dragged me here.”

“I do, too,” Sherlock croaked. His heart was beating so quickly and terribly painfully that he thought it wanted to jump out of his chest. More and more people found their partners, some grinning disbelievingly and reluctantly and others rather eager to dance. Nobody was loitering about at the sides of the hall anymore, and the bar was almost empty. The floor was filled with people and more people.

And then the spotlights blinded him. Sherlock’s eyes fell closed. His heart rate couldn’t be healthy anymore.

He was going to kill Irene.

Endless seconds passed before he dared to lift his lids once more and glance at John out of the corner of his eyes. He was squinting against the brightness, too.

Yes, he was definitely going to kill Irene.

He didn't know what happened, what mountains he would have to move, which seas he would have to empty, and which devils he would have to sell his soul to be in favour of the mighty force that propelled John to get up and offer him his hand to dance with him. But this was the reality. This was truly, utterly happening.

Then the sounds of a soft piano started echoing in the distance, and Sherlock found himself unable to breathe as he sank down from his barstool and was led into the middle of the dance floor.

It was as though he was walking on clouds, swaying like a feather in the wind.

They stood in the middle of the crowd as the piano kept playing quietly and steadily. It was the only thing that was steady inside his body, the sound ricocheting through his mind. His shoulders tensed once more. His intoxicated state from mere minutes ago seemed to sober up completely. And of course, John noticed.

“Shhh. Just relax, and let’s give them a show,” he smirked and aligned their hips, pulling them closer together.

Sherlock’s left hand rested on John’s shoulder as John guided them through the first awkward, uncoordinated steps of their dance. There was not much space because everyone in the room was dancing now, but John didn’t seem to mind that. The fact that most of their fellow students danced with their counterparts or their best friends did not seem to bother him the least.

John guided them safely in the little space they had, and when the artist began to sing he tried not to think about the words he sang and merely enjoy the few minutes he would be able to spend with John, _dancing_ with him, being pressed against him closer than he ever dared to imagine.

 

_I gave up a long time ago_

_Trying to find love_

_TV told me it was like the movies_

_But it never was_

 

_I couldn't beat it or join it_

_So I just avoided it_

_Come what may_

_Then you came_

 

Sherlock did not find the courage to look at John yet. Instead, his eyes roamed the room to find Irene, who was dancing the male part of a disco fox with her girlfriend Kate a few metres away from them. When Kate did a half-turn, Irene raised her hand to show him a thumbs-up and a wide grin with another one of those damn winks. 

She had planned this all along.

 

_And I wanna hold you in my arms_

_I wanna let you break my heart_

_I wanna feel the way it feels to make you stay_

_And I know you'll bring me to my knees_

_I know you're way out of my league_

_I know I can't afford the price I'm gonna pay_

_But I want you anyway_

 

Sherlock tried to concentrate on John’s hand on his hip, the warm pressure it exerted, how good it felt, how much it made his insides tickle, instead of the truth of the words the artist was singing. Sherlock could relate so much although he was not in the position of the person in the song. He did not have and hold. This moment was only temporary.

 

_It's so self-betrayal of me_

_I'm about to say all the things_

_I swore I'd never say_

_But my heart's in my mind_

_Drawing lines I can't erase_

_And all of a sudden_

_All that wasn't_

_So beautifully is_

_When we kiss_

 

Sherlock thought what it would feel like to kiss John right now. How would he react? Would he flee? Would he freeze on the spot? Would he shove Sherlock away? Would he kiss back? What would his lips feel like, taste like? He was probably a fantastic kisser.

Thinking about it tinted his cheeks in a rosy colour even deeper than they had until just now. He couldn’t bear it any longer. He finally lowered his eyes and found John’s eyes staring right at him. They were soft, dark, pupils blown wide, crinkly skin around them as he smiled up at him. “You’re rather good at this,” he grinned.

“I’ve always loved dancing.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you keep surprising me.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to this, but the fact that John felt easy about the entire situation relieved the tension on Sherlock’s shoulders.

The beat picked up more and John swung them around now, allowing Sherlock a little solo as he lifted his arms to let him turn and to meet him again on his way back.

 

_And I wanna hold you in my arms_

_I wanna let you break my heart_

_I wanna feel the way it feels to make you stay_

_And I know you'll bring me to my knees_

_I know you're way out of my league_

_I know I can't afford the price I'm gonna pay_

_But I want you anyway_

 

_The way the light hangs off you_

_I never stood a chance_

_See you changed every plan I had with one glance_

 

The beat slowed again, and quiet notes rang out of the piano, so they slowed their steps and brought their hips closer once more. God, John had no idea what this did to him.

 

_And I wanna hold you in my arms_

_I wanna let you break my heart_

_I wanna feel the way it feels to make you stay_

 

Sherlock never wanted the song to end and keep dancing with John forever. He was a surprisingly good dancer and the way he held him was something he did not want to miss anymore.

 

_And I know you'll bring me to my knees_

_I know you're way out of my league_

_I know I can't afford the price I'm gonna pay_

_But I want you anyway_

 

His heart beat so terribly fast again when the last notes rang out and John allowed Sherlock another slow turn to end the song. Once the song was over, a lot of people cheered and clapped, others reached for the collars of their boyfriends to pull them down for a kiss. To Sherlock, this felt like a dream world because all he could focus on John’s hand which slipped out of his hand to rest down on his waist, not letting go quite yet. And then he smiled brightly. He never looked more beautiful, despite the light shade beneath his eyes from days not of sleeping properly. Despite the lines around his eyes that seemed deeper now that he was utterly exhausted. Despite everything.

At that moment, Sherlock allowed himself to be brave. 

He cupped John’s face with both hands and leant down to press their lips together. Lightly. Softly. Like the notes of the piano at the beginning of the song. Like the singer’s voice did throughout. 

Their lips only touched for the briefest of moments before he pulled back, but, mortified at his heart overpowering his rational mind, Sherlock tried to extricate himself from John’s half-embrace mere seconds later. “Oh God– I … I–I’m so sorry, I didn’t–,” he stammered and whirled around, squeezing through the masses of people in the room to the exit. 

“Sherlock! Wait!”

But he strode on quickly as the cheers and applause of his peers still echoed through his mind. Convinced that he had just blown all chances with John, he let out a frustrated sigh as he headed for the door. Even just being friends with him would have meant so much already, but of course, he couldn't get enough and had to ruin the fragile thing that had developed between them tonight. God, he was such an idiot sometimes. 

Whey had he let Irene convince him to go in the end? 

He knew it was no good because he simply wasn't good at these sorts of things. Mingling, mixing with people he actually despised, and what with the people he cared about, he was plainly too socially inept to do anything the right way.

When he stood by the door, a quiet gasp of broke free from his chest, be it only because he had brought some distance between himself and the terrible situation that had started out so wonderfully. 

He leant against the wall and closed his eyes, not even noticing the coldness, which spread its relentless wings over him. Only when the creak of the door as it was being opened behind him once more reached his ears, his lids lifted again. Panic shot through his chest; he had to leave. He simply couldn’t face John right now.

What a disappointment he had to live with. Especially right before Christmas.

He hurried to move away from the door, but when he heard John call out his name once more, he froze in fear. 

“Sherlock! Please just–“ 

Before he knew it, he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Letting his head fall forward in defeat, he turned around, feeling naked and exposed under John’s clear and watchful gaze. 

"It's all right, John. It was a mistake. There's no need for this unnecessary conversation, which is about to complicate matters even further. We both are inebriated, and it was a reckless thing to do with all barriers down. Let’s wipe it from our memories and–“ 

“I don’t want to forget it,” John answered defiantly.

“What?” Sherlock stared at him; confused, puzzled, troubled. 

“I _don’t want_ to forget it,” John repeated himself, resting his second hand on his shoulder now. The warm pressure felt pleasant against the cool sting of the wind on his skin. “You always seemed so unapproachable, but then all of a sudden all those weeks ago when we did the experiment together, it was the first time I saw you thawing, even just a little. I know we didn’t talk much during the project, but I couldn’t help myself, I liked you anyway. Although I wasn’t sure you were actually interested in talking to me at all ‘cause you usually hurried off to other classes whenever we met in the halls, so …,” John shrugged and grinned crookedly. “Your awkward smiles are adorable by the way.”

Sherlock found himself staring, unable to do anything but breathe, although that was an almost hopeless endeavour, too. 

“You … you like me?” he heard himself croak out.

“I do, yes,” John answered, not at all embarrassed or reserved about it. “And I really enjoyed tonight with you. In fact, if you hadn’t been there, I’d have left after five minutes.”

“You …” Sherlock shook his head. He damned his mouth for not producing the words he wanted to say and his mind for not knowing what to say in the first place.

“What have people done to you that it gives you such a hard time to believe me?” John said, more to himself than to Sherlock.

"I just don't understand why you would … like someone like me," Sherlock muttered, his teeth chattering a little from the cold.

“I really do like you,” John said and smiled softly, reaching up to cup Sherlock’s cheek and running his thumb over his prominent jawbone. “And now I know that what people say about you is utter bullshit. You’re not at all what they think of you. You are clever, witty, amazing, and a bloody amazing dancer.” 

Sherlock blinked rapidly, still unable to form a proper reply.

“You’re freezing.”

He hadn't even realised how much he was shaking and he wasn't entirely sure if he could blame the cold alone for it.

“Let’s go back inside,” John said. “You left your coat by the bar, too.” 

“Do you really want to go back? You look terrible.”

“Not much of a flatterer, huh?” John chuckled heartily. “I am quite tired, yeah. But I’d regret it later if I missed the chance of dancing with you some more now. If you’re up to it, that is.”

“I’d love to,” Sherlock answered, finally finding his voice. “But I’d like to do something else first.”

Their faces were only inches apart.

“Oh, and what’s that?” John asked with a smile as his eyes darted down to his parted lips.

"You guessed it," Sherlock whispered into the crisp wintry air.

John’s grin widened as he met him halfway, sealing their lips together for the second time that night. This time, he allowed John to wind both arms around his waist, like he wanted to do after their dance had ended. Sherlock’s fingers dug into the button-down front of John’s shirt when John took his bottom lip between his teeth. Their lips parted and their tongues found the path to meet one another.

Sherlock gasped and his breath immediately turned into damp steam in the frosty air around them. John's hands came up to bury themselves in Sherlock's hair, stroking, threading gently as he took control of the kiss. It was slow and tender, but sensuous and sultry nonetheless, and soon they had to break apart, both panting and catching their breath.

“You still want to dance?” Sherlock breathed. 

“One more dance, come on,” John grinned as he pulled him back inside by the hand.

The other students had gathered at the bar once more and others had resumed their places at the side of the hall, drinking mulled wine, punch and whatever else that caused them to laugh about the most ambiguous jokes their friends made. Many others were still on the dance floor, their intoxicated state already noticeable.

“Come on,” John smiled and before he even realised what had happened, John’s hand intertwined with his own and the other pulled him close by the hip as the song _Driving Home for Christmas_ started playing and John whirled them around, trying to dance a foxtrot that did not truly work out for the long run. Sherlock laughed at his failed attempt and began to lead and guide him in a way that at least their steps were coordinated and matched with the rhythm.

“You’re going home tomorrow, then?” John asked him.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I planned to go this afternoon, but Irene arranged other plans for me.”

“Well, thankfully she did,” John grinned up at him.

“When are you going?”

“I’m not going anywhere this year.”

“What? Why?” Sherlock inquired. Despite not truly understanding the spirit and the point of keeping to traditions, even he would not like to spend Christmas by himself.

“Family fall-out. My mother finally left my father this year. She spends Christmas with her sister this year, and my sister decided to celebrate with her girlfriend's family, neither of which I'm particularly keen on," John explained. "Don't look at me like that. I don't mind."

“I'm not a fan of Christmas, and _I’d_ mind.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock, honestly,” John assured him, obviously uncomfortable to talk about this, so Sherlock let it go, which Sherlock would have done a second later anyway because John stepped onto Sherlock’s foot accidentally.

“Ow! That was my foot!” Sherlock exclaimed, losing his rhythm for a moment, while John apologised laughing.

Neither of them realised how quickly the time was passing, but it was after their twelfth dance – and they didn’t count the short breaks between songs – and another five rounds of drinks, it was well past four in the morning, and their feet felt heavy and their heads were spinning. 

Eventually, they wrapped themselves in their coats and scarves and stumbled out into the cold again. Later, they would not remember how they ended up in Sherlock’s tiny flat, kissing tipsily and hungrily as soon as the door fell shut them. Sherlock pulled away ultimately, and they practically fell up the stairs and into Sherlock’s bed.

And that was when their haste lost all impatience and slowed to more sensuous touches and kisses. Their fingers seemed almost too lazy to push buttons through holes and unbuckle belts, shove down waistbands. The alcohol had broken all the barriers and taken down the walls, and all that was left was the desire for each other in their sleep-deprived state. 

“Do you know how often I thought of you like this?” John whispered into his ear, a silent susurration. “And when I saw you sneak into the last row at rugby matches, I found myself hoping I’d have the chance someday.”

“I didn’t think you had noticed,” Sherlock breathed against his skin, kissing the pulse point behind his ear.

“I always noticed you. I just never knew how to approach you,” John rasped, pressing his lips to his cheekbone, his jaw, and the prominent tendon on his neck. 

A quiet moan broke free from Sherlock’s chest. “Says the more socially adept one of the both of us.”

John laughed against his skin, conjuring a smile on Sherlock’s face. He buried his fingers in the soft strands of John’s hair and ran his fingertips over his scalp while he lost himself in John’s kisses and touches.

“I can’t believe we were so stupid,” John gasped when Sherlock’s fingers clandestinely slipped beneath his shirt, pulling the hem out of his trousers, feeling the naked, warm, perfect skin that he had fantasised about in bed and in the shower. 

John’s fingers slowly unbuttoned his shirt and pressed his lips to every inch of newly uncovered skin, trailing his tongue over his left nipple as he pushed the last button through its hole.

“I didn’t think you were …” _Great, Sherlock. Great!_

He didn’t mean to start this sentence at all.

“Into men? No, most people don’t know,” John breathed and looked up at him with a wicked smirk. “I must admit I wasn’t sure you’d go into this sort of thing at all.”

“Neither did I,” Sherlock confessed, subdued. “I never wanted this before.”

"Then I'd better make this good," John smiled and came up briefly to kiss him, intensely, passionately, before they parted with a wet smack that seemed loud in Sherlock's ears. Sherlock had no doubts about that. This was already so much more than he ever dared to dream about.

He sat up to pull John's shirt over his head, too frustrated with the buttons. Not very long after that, his own shirt was pushed off his shoulders. He caught John stare at him, smiling all the way before he leant forward and pressed a kiss to his clavicle. "You're so gorgeous," he whispered, his breath tickling him.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest and for a moment, his heart simply stopped. If a too slim waist and too pale skin were gorgeous, what were golden-glowing skin and a well-defined, muscular body? He must have been a god from another world.

“Flatterer,” Sherlock teased, and John laughed softly as his hands ran over his sides, making him squirm.

“One of us has to be,” he answered, letting his fingers wander to Sherlock’s back and pulling him close into a new kiss. Sherlock felt himself grow harder as the seconds ticked by and he pressed himself against John’s body as much as he could. His hands migrated to John’s back and slowly strayed down to his bum, squeezing and pulling.

John moaned into the kiss. He took Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth as he had done earlier, and Sherlock realised this was his new favourite feeling. He nibbled and sucked, and the sensation caused eagerness to shoot through every vein in his body. He pulled John on top of him, feeling the comfortable weight on his chest and welcoming their new position because his hands could dive into John's jeans now and _touch_.

John’s hands reached for Sherlock’s fly and unbuckled his belt, freed the button and pulled down the zipper. He looked up at Sherlock, searching for any signs of him having changed his mind last minute, but couldn’t find any. If anything, there was arousal and fervour.

He grabbed the hem of both his trousers and pants and removed them at the same time. Sherlock gasped at the friction and the cold air engulfing him all of a sudden. To his own surprise, he didn’t feel exposed under John’s gaze, even as goose bumps spread over his entire body.

The garments hadn’t even landed on the floor yet when Sherlock’s fingers were fumbling with John’s fly. John helped Sherlock remove his jeans and straddled his hips. Quiet groans cut through the silence in the darkness when their erections touched. The sensations intensified when John started kissing him again and reached between them. “Do you have lube?” 

“Top drawer.” Sherlock gasped when John leant forward to retrieve it. 

John warmed it a little in his hand before he coated his fingers and closed them around Sherlock’s cock. “Oh, God,” Sherlock breathed and arched his back into the touch. He pulled John closer and let his fingers run over every spot they could reach. His neck, his back, his arse.

John swirled his thumb over his sensitive head, eliciting the sweetest sounds from Sherlock's throat.

His hands wandered up and down John’s strong, muscular thighs as John aligned both their erections and started stroking slowly but firmly.

Sherlock pushed up into the sensation, eager to feel more and more and more. “This feels amazing,” he breathed he finally found the friction he'd been searching.  

John’s answer was a long moan against his neck.

Before long, both of them were thrusting into John’s hand. Their movements turned vibrant, frantic, desperate to win the chase to find release. The gasps and moans and sighs that freed themselves from their chests grew louder, longer, until they were panting and heaving.

Sherlock’s body was trembling with pleasure. His imagination had ever come remotely close to this. This was indescribable, unimaginable if you hadn’t experienced it.

John began to nibble gently at his earlobe while Sherlock’s hands were buried in John’s hair. “Fuck, Sherlock,” John rasped into his ear and then kissed him messily. Too uncoordinated, too far gone.

One, two, three, four, five, six more pushes … and then he jumped over the edge. Falling off the cliff. He groaned out John’s name, breathing in his air while they were both panting. It didn’t take John much longer to follow him, leaving a pool of release on Sherlock’s belly and chest, but he couldn’t care less.

John sank down on top of Sherlock, trying to catch his breath and his chest rose and fell in a still unsteady rhythm. “That was bloody phenomenal,” he gasped out. 

Sherlock was still incapable of producing any sound but a hum. He tilted his head to press a kiss to John’s sweaty forehead and then sank back against the pillow. Its warmth and softness welcomed him and he found himself drifting off to sleep when he felt John move beside him.

A flash of panic shot through his body. He wasn’t going to leave now, was he? 

“John?”

“I was just gonna grab a flannel. This the bathroom?” he asked, pointing to the adjacent door.

Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Even after an entire evening of drunk dancing, kissing and even sex, his thoughts still had the upper hand apparently. He nodded as his shoulders relaxed a little. 

John disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the tap water running and the sound of squeezing out a wet cloth before re-emerging steps grew louder and John came back into the bedroom. “I really dishevelled you,” he grinned as he ran a hand through Sherlock’s tousled curls and kissed it afterwards. “Come here, let me wipe this off,” he said and ran the warm flannel over his chest and abdomen. He didn’t know how a simple motion like this could feel this good, but he supposed this was John’s doing. 

“Thank you,” he slurred, already partly in another, quieter world. John took the cloth back to the bathroom and closed the door behind him when he returned and slipped back into bed beside Sherlock, winding an arm around his waist and entangling his legs with Sherlock’s. “We’ll be absolutely knackered tomorrow.”

“’t’lally worth it,” Sherlock murmured and tucked John’s head under his chin.

“Oh yes, definitely,” John whispered. They were fast asleep before another minute had ticked by.

 

____________________

 

When Sherlock woke, it was well past eleven. His head felt funny, stinging a little at the brightness that was flooding the room. Warmth radiated from another body beside him, a pleasant feeling compared to the headache torturing his mind. John was sleeping peacefully, but there were dark shadows underneath his eyes. The exhaustion from days of not sleeping properly was showing now. There were no lines on his forehead and none around his eyes as he slept soundly, catching the sleep he had denied himself during long nights of typing and reading and typing some more. The dim light that fell through the window covered by light green curtains gleamed on his face.

He could watch John sleep forever. An arm was still wound around him as if to claim despite fatigue. It was a sight worth waking up to. A feeling to be cherished.

A pang of pain made his heart ache at the thought of leaving John behind alone for Christmas when they could have just this, no matter where or when. It was an unacceptable thought. If it didn’t break his mother’s heart not to have him come home for Christmas, he would stay with John over the holidays. But– 

_Couldn’t he?_

Or would he reject this offer? Was their short and yet intimate acquaintance too brief after all? Was it too much to ask John to spend Christmas with him? Would he agree? Would it be reserved and reluctant?

All the nagging thoughts did nothing to relieve his headache. 

He carefully extricated himself from John’s protective grasp, but his head stung with every movement he made. Cursing under his breath, and cursing himself for making too much noise, he made sure he didn’t rouse John from his peaceful and sound slumber, but he was still miles away in another world of quiet and calmness.

He slipped into the bathroom as silently as he could manage on still wobbly legs and took a shower. The last time he stood right here, John had been merely a fantasy, a distant dream he never dared to reach for; and now? Now he was snoring lightly in the adjacent room. He almost couldn’t believe it. 

He truly couldn’t believe his luck at any rate. He could still feel his lips on him as they kissed him

 

_e               v              e              r               y              w              h               e              r               e              …_

 

… as he touched him so reverently, so gently and lovingly.

How had awkward smiles in the halls while passing by turned tender touches and sweet kisses? How had an unreal fantasy become a reality? What had he done to become deserve this, to become so lucky?

 

____________________

 

He made coffee and tried to find something edible in his too empty fridge. An aspirin from the bathroom cupboard was unavoidable after all, and he figured John would need the same once he woke. He prepared breakfast – he hoped John would accept this for breakfast, anyway – for him. It was almost half past one, but he knew John would appreciate something to eat, especially the tablet. When he entered the bedroom, John was stirring in his sleep and eventually squinted up at him as he set the tray down on the bedside table. 

“Hmm. Hey, beautiful,” John mumbled with a voice hoarse from sleep, which conjured a blush on Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Hello,” Sherlock returned, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

John smiled sleepily but squeezed his eyes shut again as soon as he moved to reach for him. “Fuck,” he groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. “In any other case, I’d say this was a terrible idea, but actually, it was totally worth it,” he murmured as he rubbed his eyes and then pressed his palms against them.

Sherlock handed him the glass of water and dropped the aspirin into it. “I figured you’d need some.”

“Thank you.” John accepted it gratefully and drank it slowly, cherishing the pleasant feeling of a non-alcoholic beverage on his tongue. “When are you leaving?” he asked then. 

“At 4. You have two hours to pack.”

“Well, I didn’t bring anything with me but myself,” John chuckled and then grimaced. Sherlock smiled. He’d really had too much to drink.

“Precisely. So you need more clothes.” 

John blinked at him. “Wha– You– you don’t mean–“

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock answered. His heart was jumping and pounding wildly inside his ribcage. _Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes._

“But we–“

“My mother would be delighted, and you would make the visit much more bearable. Not to mention that I would really … appreciate it,” he cleared his throat, not knowing how to read the look John was given him. Was it an amused grin? “In fact, I’d like you to come … very much." 

John reached for both his hands and squeezed them gently as he ran one thumb over the knuckles of his left hand. “Well,” he said, in an earnest voice, “how could I refuse such a lovely invitation?”

A wide smile spread on Sherlock's lips, and he leant forward to kiss John as sheer relief flooded his entire body.

He didn’t know why or how he had ended up on a train with the guy that had somehow won his heart within mere minutes and tortured him for the weeks to come until they had found themselves on an evening that included too much liquor and just the right amount of dancing at an event Sherlock actually despised and eventually led to very drunken love-making in the dead hours of the morning, but maybe he shouldn’t look for a reason. Not this time. Perhaps the reality was enough. It was enough to slip his hand into the warm pocket of John’s jacket into which John reached afterwards to close his hand around his own. It was enough to conjure a smile on John’s face as he asked him to tell him about his “adventures” chasing criminals all over London and watch that smile turn into astonishment, wonder, and amazement. It was enough to be asked to deduce the people who walked past them in the aisle and to hear him giggle as he complimented Sherlock on how incredible he was. It was enough to be welcomed by his parents as though John were already part of the family. It was enough to feel his breath on the back of his neck with his body wrapped around Sherlock's own after they had made love under the covers and tried to stifle their moans and gasps, so his parents didn't hear them.

Although all of this felt like a dream, fragile and evanescent, John was here to reassure him that it was very much real and true, that it was worth it to let oneself be guided by one’s feelings sometimes, and that it did not take a cheesy Hollywood movie to find what everyone was looking for.

Sometimes all it takes is a very insistent friend … and a crumpled-up ticket.

Although they did not exchange gifts wrapped neatly and with care on Christmas Day, being able to steal tender kisses whenever he liked, feeling John’s hand sneak into his own under the table and having found what neither of them dared to dream of was better than anything money could buy. Sherlock knew from the broad smile that lingered on John’s lips that he felt the same, and that in itself was the best present anyone could ever receive. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. The song is called "I want you anyway" by Jon McLaughlin. I thought it really fit the story and is worth checking out. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, I'd really appreciate it :) 
> 
> Have a wonderful new year <3


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